


A Lion In Winter

by searching4neverland



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, Missing Scenes, continuation of 'summer eyes'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6924661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searching4neverland/pseuds/searching4neverland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be a collection of scenes from 'Summer Eyes'. Scenes that I had planned ahead and written but that hadn't happened yet. I will try to post them in chronological order, but I made a lot of notes as i was writing and I might find something later on, that should have been written in the beginning. For those cases, there will be notes, of course.<br/>I will also add the facts preceding certain scenes too, to make them more clear.</p><p>This isn't a 'story', i don't suppose it deserves to be called that. But many people would like to see 'Summer Eyes' come to a close, and since I cannot seem to bring myself to write it all, I thought could at least give this to everyone who was so so lovely to me back when I was writing.<br/>Thank you.<br/>Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a wish

 1. 

 

She was staring in the faraway horisont, eyes narrowed by the biting wind. All was white before her and yet she looked as if she wanted to see what it hid.

“What do you think of the north, your grace?” he heard himself ask aloud. It had been that look in her eyes that had made him ask.

Princess Myrcella answer without turning her eyes away from the snowed-in marshes before her. “It is like any other place, my Lord. Only colder.”

The laugh escaped him quite unexpectantly. Lannisters and their unflappable humour. Jon did not expect her to speak again, but she did.

“It has not stopped snowing for days. sometimes I think the skies mean to bury us in it.” she says softly and Jon smiles, without looking at her. These words more than her face, her hair, her skin, more even than her name, are the prove that the north is as foreign to her as the depths of the seas are to any man.

“I’ve seen worse at the wall.” He says back calmly, not wanting to discourage her. But he sees with the corner of his eyes that she turns her face to him, so he does the same – and what he sees in her face gives him pause.

“You have?”

Because there’s fascination, as well as trepidation in her eyes as she looks at him. It’s so strange, but he is reminded of the Imp at the wall, so many years ago, and his curiosity for all things, even things he had no business knowing. Or maybe it’s because he actually likes this particular Lannister and he cannot help but wanting to associate her with the only less-than-hateful memory of Lannisters he has. The Imp had not been bad company.

“Yes. Soon you will too. Winter in the North is something fierce.”

But he says no more. This was not one of old Nan’s stories. This was her life. No need to frighten his soon to be queen. At least, he’d rather not do it himself.

There’s a small sound from her. Sounds like a scoff.

“I don’t belong here, do I? People find me ridiculous, I can see it in their eyes when they look at me.” She sighed heavily. “I belong in Winterfell no more than a fish belongs in the skies.”

He takes a long look at her profile. Every turn of her face’s lines are soft curves, delicate linings that made up bold features. A proud, stoic beauty - with that slash across her cheek that shatters it into something new and fierce. Jon takes a good look at that scar, tries to imagine how she got it. It seems like a clean cut that had been sewed together masterfully... and cut deliberately.

That face - her Lannister face, her _mother's_ face - slashed open.

It sound almost like petty revenge. Jon stops his thoughts short, because he feels the truth echo in them: revenge against the one that gave her such a face. He knew men who could so easily do that.

She turns then, and looks at him as if she expects him to say something after having allowed him to stare at her so openly for so long.

Jon smiles.

"A fish in the sky…” Jon repeated in a murmur, and could not help the smile. “You had better learn to grow some wings then.”

Her sharp eyebrow rising at him, expression wistful and amused at the same time, is as eloquent an answer as he'll ever receive. But then she smiles, very softly, as if her lips are out of practice.

"I just might, Lord commander." she says to the falling snow. And Jon believes her.


	2. comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [she is upset, because she attended a council meeting with Robb, and though she was not insulted – because the northerners respect her position, if not the person occupying it, it was made perfectly clear she was unwelcome  
> This is not very far into the future, but far enough that Robb and Myrcella trust each other enough to comfort each other]

2.

“Remember when you asked me about Greywind snatching the Greatjon’s fingers?”

Myrcella looked at him in confusion, trying to hold back tears that she was not sure were there because of anger or simple hurt.

“Has anyone told you why he threatened to draw steel?”

She shook her head. No. Nobody concerned themselves with telling the queen things apparently. Gods it would be so easy if she could just slip back into a game and play them all for thed                        i fools they deserved…

“He wanted to lead the van, and when I said he was going to march behind the Hornwoods and the Cerwins, he threatened to march home instead.”

“I didn’t know that there was bad blood between the Umbers and the Horwoods. Or the Cerwins. They seem friendly enough with each other.”

Robb smiled and one of his hands went to her hair, to smooth it out of her face and then cup her cheek.

“There is no bad blood. He was pushing me, testing my strength to see if I was really so green I must piss grass - as he said it himself.”

Myrcella’s frown was instantaneous. The Stark’s were their overlords. With what right…

_Oh…_

“The North respects bloodlines and family names, but not blindly. There must be strength to back the claim, or the claim is void.” His eyes on hers were unwavering, his brow arched up, willing her understand. “We follow strength above all, and courage and honor. Its why house Stark has always led by example. Do you understand me?”

Did she? Was it even possible?

“You think it could happen that one day they’ll forget that I’m a Lannister and respect my for who I am.” it was worded as a statement, but her very tone, the doubt in her her eyes, made it into a question.

“Nobody up here will ever forget that you’re a Lannister.” Robb said to her then, and there was nothing but bare fact in his voice. But what warmth lacking in his words was his voice and his eyes, and the soothing motion of his hand on her back.

“But they will see you for who you are eventually. It’s impossible not to.” His smile is small and playful. She knows that smile. It’s hers. “Even the blind can see you.”


	3. comfort (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a little after the previous chapter. perhaps even later that day]

3.

 

“It’s not as hard as it could have been.” She finally admitted, turning her body to face him fully. “At least up here, I need not worry so much about all those that were wronged by house Lannister taking their dues on me – and those are many.”

 _First among them, my family_. Robb thinks, but doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to.

“I don’t have to pretend that I enjoy things that I do not, all I have to do is make a place for myself. I am blessed some people that might even like me and a husband…” She stopped then, her eyes grew just a bit softer, her lips curving into a faint smile. “A husband who I am happy to call a friend.”

And who is gentle, and kind. But that she could not speak. She was fond of him, but she was also proud. And there was a strange embarrassment too, at thinking it. Admitting it would be adding vulnerability, and that was a state Myrcella could not yet wear in comfort, not even for him.

“And you have a crown on your head.” Robb reminded her with a smile, taking a step closer. It was impossible to miss her blink, or her smile.

“And a crown, of course. I am not likely to forget that.”

His question was silent in his eyes, but she heard it anyway.

( _He had a queer feelings sometimes – a product of his own fanciful imagination perhaps, working to please his ego – that few people in Winterfell were more aware of him than his wife was. She never missed a thing. It used to make him nervous. The nerves hadn’t changed, but now they were there for different reasons. They were not even nerves really. They tasted too sweetly of anticipation._

 _It was a feeling he’d known before, though not quite like this_.)

He was close enough to smell the air surrounding her now. When she spoke, she did so softly.

“There is another queen down south, who looks remarkably like me.” Myrcella explained. “Nobody is likely to forget that, and I never should.”

He was about to say remind her that she was Queen of Winter and that nobody was likely to forget that either, but the tips of her fingers brushing the side of his face stopped him.

“It’s a silly notion Robb. It doesn’t matter.”

But she was telling him what he would like to hear, not what really made her look so very sad sometimes. He didn’t like it, but would rather not push too hard.

One might push at her all one likes, Myrcella is not the kind of person that would give, unless she had a mind to do so from the start. He’d learned that it was not merely stubbornness, as he’d once thought. It was the only way she knew how to survive. She’d spent too much time in Dorne, among women like her beloved Sand Snakes, to ever relearn how to bow properly.

But that too, he thought, was a silly notion. She was as breakable as he was; as any other human being. Why, he could feel her fragility even as he brought her closer with a hand on the low of her back, the other soon finding her waist, her hip. He knew her body well enough to know how to imagine her without her heavy dress, even as her lips touch his and he feels a smile lingering in them. Even as she opens up and, with a hand at the back of his neck, invites him to her warmth, to her taste and into her kiss.

He'd learned how to hold her in a very short time. But then again, that was not through any skill of his own: he always made sure of his welcome, of her permission. He’d learned without ever asking her, that that was what most made her feel safe. So he’d given it.

She kissed him back with the  skill of the new and the enthusiasm of the sincerely passionate, her hands tracing his shoulders, fingers threading through the curls at the back of his neck, mapping his scalp... and the difference stopped mattering altogether.

 

 


	4. temptation

The red woman touched her cheek, tracing her scar with a single finger. Myrcella was so stunned by the action that she was transfixed on the spot. There was something almost mesmerizing about the other woman’s eyes, the way her stare pierced, as if she knew something beyond the world.

Or at least, as if she thought she did.

“I could take this away from you.” The Red priestess said. “It would not be difficult. I could make you what you were.”

Myrcella did not dare breathe for a moment. The woman’s words swirled in her head. She turned away from those unsettling eyes, to watch the frozen snow-painted land in front of her. The wind beat her cheeks, most likely reddening them, and the cold air aided her clarity.

She could think now. It was easier when not faced directly with her temptation.

She thought back at her own injuries, at how she got them. Thought of the looks she got, and how people stared. Thought of how much she had been through just because of that imperfection on her face.  But there were times, usually hard times, when Myrcella could find it in herself to be glad that she had lost her beauty before she learned to rely too much on it.  Ugly women and once-pretty ones had to think up more ingenious ways to say alive. Staying alive had been an exercise for the mind and her will.

And there were also times when she was too tired to pretend. During those times she could admit to weakness, ency and pettiness. She could admit to vanity.

The truth was that she hated that scar. She hated how she'd gotten it, what it meant and why she wore it. She hated that it was a mark in a way that she never would have hated it, had she done it to herself, for instance. But that had nothing to do with what the Red priestess was offering. It was not her vanity that hurt to bear the proof of her hard survival on her face, for all to see. 

It was the fact that someone had thought to subjugate her by putting it there. And that was a feeling that no spell could take away.

When Myrcella turned, she had an answer for the red Priestess. The woman looked at her, as if she knew what it was already.

Myrcella tipped her chin up just a fraction. “I thank you for your offer. But I would rather be who I am now.”


	5. jaime lannister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this is happening quite far into the story. i dont think anyone cares for spoilers anymore, but still - the reason for jamie's visit will be in the next chapter]

When he was brought in, he was almost half frozen from the cold. He could hardly feel his fingers and toes, but he knew that they were not to fall off because as soon as the warm air of the hall hits his face, his whole body started to ache and prickle and itch, as if he was being punctured with tiny needles everywhere.

Sudden warmth after the frosty bite of snow and sharp wind could do as much damage as anything. You could feel like you were on fire and Jamie thought he felt that kind of echo in his body. Thawing seemed to be proportionally painful with the amount of depths the cold had set it, it seemed.

He could not help a smirk at that. How every much like life.

But still, this was all peripheral. Only a very small part of his mind was concentrated in it, the part that usually whispered knowingly even when he was asleep. His conscious mind was riveted on _her_ , sitting there on that bone-white weirwood throne, straight backed and draped in the layers of white wool and velvet. Her eyes were darkened by grief and exhaustion, the green of them shining almost ominously in her so pale face. Her skin was not so sun kissed anymore, her cheeks bloodless and her lips pale. She was not the golden girl that had come north anymore, the first piece of home he had seen upon his release from captivity.

(He had found it ironic then, how the northerners were letting him go, in exchange for another piece of him.

The thought stung with stupidity now.)

He'd thought he’d been half dreaming when he'd seen her that day. Years and years she'd been away, only the memory of a sweet child in his head whenever he thought of her; that memory so fixed in his mind had he had half expected Myrcella to still look as she had when she went away. But she had not.

She had been grown and beautiful, golden and marred, with eyes too sharp for such a young face and yet so wide with wonder and brimming life, so beautiful still in that innocence she’d clung to. An innocence that Jaime would have mocked on anyone else, but never her.

He found it a sorry sight indeed that that innocence had drained of her eyes now. It only added to his grief.

Jaime looked down.

All the realm thought that Myrcella looked like Cersei but they were _wrong_. She did not… but those who knew better, were smart enough to keep their silence.

He felt like he could shrivel even further in his own skin as he was walked closer to the throne. His father had exchanged Myrcella for him. For his sorry hide and for peace. The link that will forge the realms together, he'd said, though what he truly meant, nobody hut the devil in his father’s heart knew. 

Jaime fell to his knees before her before he realized what was happening. Nobody ever knew if he was pushed there, of if that was the only thing he could do, faced with the terrible pain that seemed to be carved on every inch of her face, that made his shame only burn hotter. A queen now, the little girl he had never been allowed to call daughter. She was not little anymore. And she was every inch the queen.

That was good. He had not come here for mercy.


	6. you failed

 

Jon watched as the Kingslayer was led in. He was roughened by the long journey, as well as the treatment that he had chosen to give himself once his plea to enter Winterfell was refused almost a week ago. And yet, Jamie Lannister had refused to leave, planting himself outside the keep’s walls until he was granted an audience with the Queen.

Perhaps the Kinglsayer had known they couldn’t very well let him freeze out there. Perhaps he hadn’t cared. Lannisters could be a stubborn lot, and this was a golden lion if he ever saw one, Jon thought.

But for all his contempt, Jon could not miss the way the Kingslayer’s eyes were so fixed on the queen, watching her intensely, as if she called to him from out of the world… which was ironic in itself, since the queen had not even glanced at him. She had eyes only for Greywind and Ghost that were growling at the periphery of the Kingslayer’s steps, circling him like prey from a distance.

Myrcella’s face had not changed for days, at least not that Jon had seen. It was as if she’d frozen.

He watched her sometimes talk to Robb quietly, both sitting in front of the fire at the end of the day. Sometimes she would act as if they were completely alone and sit in Robb’s lap, lay her head on his shoulder. It was only then that she seemed to lose some part of that grief that seemed to have become sculpted in her features.

 Jon could understand it well. When he had learned that Bran and Rickon were thought to be dead, he had heard his heart crack and shatter painfully in his chest, and the whole world on fire could not have compared with the desperation he'd felt. He had heard that pain echo in Myrcella's screams that night she learned you brother was dead. Those were sounds Jon was not likely to forget. Nor could he readily forget how her eyes had burned with such venomous hatred, how her face had contorted and the girl he had known had disappeared into a new person. Someone that Jon could say, without a moment's regret, he could easily come to dread.

Her pain had been a terrible thing, but her hatred, all that venom… that had been worse.

It was that singing loathing he remembered now, as the Kingslayer kneeled in front of the King and Queen of the north.

Would she make good on her word and have him killed? Could she truly hate so fierce?

Jon could not know. He could not imagine what it meant to hate with such passion another person that had his own blood. The only thing he could imagine was a soul tearing like frail paper. It was unnatural... the heart was not meant to hate those that you called family. It was the reason why kinslaying was the heaviest sin of all.

But then again, no Stark that Jon had ever known had ever hurt another Stark. No Stark had ever needed to be protected from their own blood. His family couldn’t be torn apart by hatred, because they had been taught to love each other, respect and protect each other. That was not the way for every family. Theirs, Jon had learned soon, had been an exception.

But the Starks and their ways were very different from the Lannisters. Cersei Lannister had laid with her own twin but incorrigibly hated her other brother. Their father, the head of the family, had wanted his youngest son dead ever since the Imp drew his first breath.  Love – the love Ned Stark had taught him to have of family, the love his siblings had for each other and for him - had nothing to do with anything, when he thought of the Lannisters.

And yet, Myrcella had loved her brother almost as much as she now hated the elder. She used to speak of the Imp with clear affection and though she’d never spoken of the Kingslayer, Jon knew from Sansa that she had held fondness for him too. Myrcella, his queen who insisted she call him by name whenever he could, loved her blood because no matter how horrible they were, that did not make them any less her family.

But none of that mattered anymore. The Queen’s face had show no softness, indeed, she’d shown no emotiona oat all when a week prior, the Kingslayer’s presence in Winterfell was announced. Nor when she denied him stay in her home, and not even when she conceded to finally seeing him. Even when he was brought in, she did not look at him and even now, as that seven realms called ‘without honour’ stood at her feet, kneeling on the cold floor, the queen had yet to look upon him.

Greywind kept snarling something fierce, and to Jon's immediate surprise, it was not Robb that called the wolf back, but the queen. She barely move her lips really, and Jon did not hear her voice where he was standing. But Greywind did. His ears perked and he turned to look at her with that eerie intelligence in his eyes, before he trotted back to her side and laid his huge head on the queen's lab, allowing himself to be petted.

Jon missed part of the words exchanged between his brother upon the throne and the Kingslayer at his feet. But he did not miss it when Myrcella's haunting eyes lifted from Greywind's head to finally rest on him who seven kingdoms whispered was the man who had fathered her and her brothers.

Her eyes burned and the longer she stared at the Kingslayer, the more her face came to life.

"How dare you?"

It was just the whisper, a rough one of a voice that had not been used in a while, but it echoed in nearly empty great hall, silencing all other sounds, even the breath of men. Jon for one was holding his. And there is was again, that blood-rage that hit harder than a warhammer to the head, making her look more a wraith and a live human with how her face remained so hard and unmoving even as fierce life burned in her eyes.

Queen of winter… The name had never fit her better than it did right then.

"How dare you stand there and make _jokes_ , when my brother lays cold in the ground, dead at five and ten." She fisted her hands under the layers of her sleeves and few noticed the tremble of them as she did so. "You're not fit enough to breathe the air of these halls after what you did when you were here last. You're not worthy enough to _look_ upon anyone but your feet, so you keep your eyes low and your tongue in its place, or I swear to all the gods I will pluck them out of your skull myself."

The Kingslayer did not look down and away from her, but his next words lacked that cocksure arrogance of always.

"As the queen commands." he said simply…

silence reigned for a few moments. Now that she had laid her eyes on him, it seemed that it was impossible for the queen to stop looking at the Kingslayer. When silence stretched on, it was clear that this would be the queen's audience even though Robb was sitting by her side. Perhaps that was why the hall had been emptied and only Robb's most trusted men were in there.

"What is your purpose in coming here?" the queen finally asked, flatly, and the Kingslayer could have been anyone for the way she addressed him if it had not been for the disgust lingering underneath that carefully blank tone.

"I came to see you." was the Kingslayer’s answer.

"And now you have seen me." the finality in her voice rivaled death's. "Your reasons are still unknown to me."

The Kingslayer said nothing to change that and the more he kept silent, the tenser the air got. the sharper the look in the queen's eyes, the harder her voice.

"Did your father tell you what I said to the last Lannister envoy to come into this hall, begging to see me?"

"He told me." And there was the ghost of a smirk in the Kingslayer’s face. "I expected nothing less."

"And yet here you are. What makes you think I will not make due on my promise.

"I represent no one but myself. You may do with me as you will, your grace."

"As I will..." the queen spoke those words as if testing the feel of them on her tongue. But her eyes were too sharp for it to be just a game. Jon almost expected what came next.

"Very well. I will the truth from you. Are you my father?"

The Kingslayer startled visibly and Jon thought that, had the queen walked up to him and slapped him full in the face, he would not have been more shocked. The entire hall was collectively holding their breaths, even the stones seemed to vibrate. Robb looked at his wife with barely concealed worry in his eyes, but he said nothing nor did he attempt to placate her. Myrcella needed no placating, that was no clouded mind behind those shiny eyes.

The Kingslayer opened his mouth, then thought better of it and swallowed hard, seemingly gulping his own words down. "Your grace..."

"You see, I find myself in a dilemma: I know not what to call you. Whether uncle, or father, or sir? I will not call you my lord because you are not a lord, and even if you were, you would not be one of mine; and I think too many call you Kingslayer without my adding to it - frankly that names bores me, and it stinks of righteousness, seeing that I would give a great deal if I could only shove a dagger through Joffrey's heart myself. So tell me, Jamie Lannister, what am I to call you?"

This must be what slow torture was like for lack of blades or any other machinations, Jon thought. It was obvious from the look on his face that the Kingslayer felt the same.

"Answer me!" her voice, even if so barely raised, slashed at the silence like the crack of a whip.

"I would not ruin whatever peace you have found here." the Kingslayer said slowly, deliberately. It was as good as an answer, Jon thought to himself. The queen scoffed ever so softly though.

"What would you know of my peace? For all you know, Robb Stark despises me and has a whole kingdom to join him."

Something very much like defiance transformed the Kingslayer into a creature that Jon might as yet recognize. "And yet from the Riverlands to the Wall folk speak of the White Queen of Winterfell and the King who loves her."

But then again, the Kingslayer was not the only one for stubbornness was he? The queen’s eyes flashed at his words. "Wrong, they call me the Bastard queen. And if your next words are not the answer to my question they will be the last I will be willing to hear from you."

For a moment, a fleeing moment that was shorter than a heartbeat, there was something akin to panic in Jamie Lannister's eyes, but then he lowered them from the queen and looked at her feet and the silence stretched. But not for long. The Kingslayer looked up, meeting the queen's eyes full on, and gave her the answer she wanted.

"Yes."

A single word, and it echoed in the hall like a shout.

The queen did not look surprised. She did not react in any way. But something in her eyes changed... liquefied almost. Her gaze was still impassive as ever, but quite as hard as before, not quite as cold. The fire in her quelled, as if with that simple answer from the Kingslayer, he had dampened the rage inside her, the way only Robb ever could.

"Do you remember that you used sneak me old tomes of the great battles, and Tommen the sweets that mother wouldn’t let him have?"

The Kingslayer seemed as surprised by this turn of the conversation as Jon felt.

"I remember."

"I used to watch Robert Baratheon fondle everything with teats and hit my mother’s in the face, and I used to wish with all my heart for another life, where you could have been my father."

A small, humourless smile stretched the Kingslayer’s lips. "The gods are not without a sense of humour, I have found."

"Am I to blame to god's sense of humour of spending the last years of my life feeling like the butt of a bad joke then?" Myrcella said readily, wiping the half-smile from the Kingslayer’s face. Her face turned hateful for a brief moment, and the disgust in her was palpable. “You could have had your affair, but that wasn’t enough, was it? You wanted to jape in Robert Baratheon’s face, you wanted to shame him. You wanted to spout bastards on him as revenge for all his slights on you both didn’t you? Look into my eyes and tell me if I’m wrong.”

And the Kingslayer looked, and shook his head without batting an eyelash. “No, you’re not wrong.”

The queen held his gaze for a moment, and then looked to Robb. “Is he lying to me just to appease me?”

And she asked with such sureness, such certainty that it was as if she never doubted Robb really could snatch lies of out the air the way people said he could. But it was not Robb that had such a talented gift – Jon knew that – It was Greywind. And as Jon himself dipped briefly in Ghosts mind to taste the air around the Kingslayer, he too knew the answer to the question that the queen had asked.

“No.” Robb said softly, so softly. “He is not.”

Te queen’s lips thinned, her eyes burned. The rage coursing through her disquieted Greywind enough so that he got up on all fours and started rolling his shoulders, tightened by the tension he felt in the room.

“I didn’t used to care about that. About why. I took comfort in a simple truth: all my life I've believed that, though imperfectly, my mother loved me. That she loved Tommen. But she did not send him away when she could have. She did not protect her own son, when she could have. And neither did you."

The queen rose from her seat, standing tall and straight before the man that was her father, who had not moved from his knees.

"Do you remember when Joffrey pushed my down the stairs of our quarters? I was five years old, and I broke my arm."

The Kingslayer swallowed with difficulty. Jon felt his hand close around the hilt of his sword and he didn’t miss the way Robb's knuckles turned white for how hard he was holding on the armrest of the throne. His brother’s eyes were as ice-blue as the wall and just as cold, and Jon would bet his life there was nothing but violence in his thoughts just then.

"I remember."

"Can you look me in the eye now and tell me that my brother fell and broke his neck out of his own carelessness?"

The Kingslayer didn’t answer. He didn’t look away, but he only chewed on his tongue. So very slowly, Jamie Lannister shook his head.

The queen turned ashen, what little colour left in her face drained and Jon watched as Robb's eyes instantly sharpened on her, looking at her as if she was going to collapse any moment, as if he was ready to catch her the second she showed the faintest crack of will.

He should know better. even Jon knew better by now.

"How?"

But the Kingslayer was silent.

"Tell me how." and this time it was an order that did not pretend to be anything different.

"Joffrey was in a rage. Tommen was in his path."

And it seemed to Jon that he could almost see it, even though the Joffrey and Tommen he saw were the children he had seen in Winterfell years ago. He could see the little ship rage on and grab the little boy, pushing him down the stairs.

By the way the queen hissed and turned her face away, closing her eyes against eh words, she could see it too.

"That simply, was it? And nobody stopped him." it wa snot a question. "Nobody ever stops him…" She took a deep breath, the smile ugly on her face because it was no smile. It was a grimace. “The whole continent despises you for killing a mad king, but I think that is the one thing I like you best for. ...Why didn’t you stop him?”

And though these her previous words were not meant neither to be heard nor to be answered, this was a question that commanded a response, whether the Kingslayer had one to give or not. She looked as if she might claw his eyes out with her own hands if he kept his silence.

“I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…” though to whom it is that he is apologising its not very clear, whether to the queen before him or the dead son that can no longer hear him.

"Merryn Trant was guarding him.” Te Kingslayer says then, slowly, voice more like his own this time. Harder. “Merryn Trant is dead."

Only silence greeted him however. But not for long, even though the queen didn’t seem to openly acknowledge anything he said.

"Does my mother know?" the queen asked and this time, it seemed almost as if the question was an afterthought. But the more she pondered it, the more important it became that she receive an answer, because she did not move her gaze from the Kingslayer’s eyes... who swallowed thickly again, and then shook his head. No.

_No._

The Lannister twins were a strange pair indeed. And a bane on seven realms who had to suffer for their sick obsession over each other.

"Don’t be foolish, of course she knows. Perhaps nobody's told her, but she knows... Was it you or my mother who pushed Brandon Stark off that tower?"

This question broke the tension that had been simpering from the very start of the conversation. Jon felt every nerve in his body snap with a crack that was audible, but to his ears alone. Ghost and Greywind jumped sitting immediately both responding to their master's sudden tension.

"It was me."

Jon heard the sound of steel against sheath and he knew that there were hungry blades shining in the hall even though it was forbidden to shed blood in the king's and queen's presence. His own hand was aching at his sword's pommel.

Robb got up, came to stand by his queen. His face was carved of ice, his eyes smouldered like blue fire and he held himself with the stillness of the coil before the kill. But he was still enough, and silent.

"Did you come here to be punished then? You think it will be so easy? That you will have death now, just because you want it?"

Bu the Kingslayer stayed silent. the queen's eyes narrowed in sudden contemplation.

"Or is it absolution that you seek?"

There was nothing in her tone to suggest mocking, her voice sounded as flat and hollow as ever, but somehow that made it sound even worse. As it no greater idiocy could ever be concocted and it was so grotesque that it was almost funny. Only silence answer the queen’s questions though… and that was when she did what she had not done yet. What was both expected and natural. She stepped forward and stood closer to him, close enough to touch.

"Is it really for my forgiveness that you want. Or was it simply for a clean death?"

The Kingslayer closed his eyes and sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping.

"My sins are beyond you to forgive, sweet girl. And no death is a clean death."

Sweet girl... there was nothing sweet about Myrcella now. and she gritted her teeht at teh name, she looked as if hshe might tear out his throat for them. but only for a moemnt. the she turnad as she had been again: She was as hard as cold-rolled steel, her hand pale when it came up to brush the back of her fingers against the Kingslayer's cheek, the soft touch so at odds with the blankness of her face. The man's hand came up to hold that pale hand against his rough cheek, moving so fast that both Robb and Jon made a step towards him before they realized what the Kingslayer's intention was.

"I'm searching my heart for what was left of the love I bore you once... but I cannot find it. I cannot. I think it died with Tommen." the queen said, and though she spoke smoothly and her face was unchanged, tears shone in her green eyes, without falling.  "But I do feel so sorry for you, for some reason that is truly beyond my understanding."

The Kingslayer gave a poor imitation of a smile, turned the queen's hand around and kissed her knuckles with the barest brush of lips, before letting it go. Myrcella's hand fell limp to her side.

"I’m sure everyone here has told you that you look so very much like Cercei, but they're wrong." the Kingslayer smiled, and it was only then that Jon realized that this was what a real smile on that face of his looked like. Not one of those smirks full of mocking intent. "You look like I remember my lady mother looked."

Jon saw the first hint of real emotion Myrcella had shown: the faint surprise flickered in her eyes, in the slight loosening of her lips, before she absorbed it.

"Apparently so. I’ve been told as much twice before."

the Kingslayer’s smile turned crooked. "Then it must be true."

But to that the queen did not respond. She turned and walked towards Robb, sharing a look with him that nobody but them seemed to understand. When she did turn, there was none of that anger in the queen's eyes, but rather purpose. Her whole demeanour reflected it.

"You have chosen a strange path to walk in life, Sir Jamie, and I do not pretend to understand it. You amorality has destroyed lives and ended lives and I don't think that, were the laws of justice to be followed, one single death would be enough of a toll for your crimes. So I’m offering you a chance to earn yourself a clean death."

The Kingslayer’s shoulders immediately straightened, and thought he was looking at her from a bent knee, he seemed more himself now than he had the whole time he had been there. And it was eerie enough to look at their faces and see the lines of resemblance, but now, they were mirroring each other's expression in a way that was almost extraordinary: the same determination was set in both the queen's eyes and Jamie Lannister's. How had nobody noticed that they were as mirror images of each other all these years? Was she really so different when she was a child? Nobody ha ever failed to tell him how much like Ned Stark he looked, ever, even when he was small…

"What is it that my queen would have me do?"

 _She is not_ your _queen_ , Jon felt like saying, and he could see it in her eyes, in Robb's eyes, that they were thinking the same thing.

"I would have you bring justice to the North for the murder of Lord Eddard Stark."

Jon’s surprise was a dark one, as was the Kingslayer. his entire face obscured.

"You would have me kill another king?"

Myrcella's eyes narrowed. 

"You really think I'd ask you to murder your own son." she snapped her eyes open and they were once again hard as gems, but look all he might, Jon had never once seen cruelty in her face... save perhaps that one time, just that once... and the lack of tat cruelty was evident now, even the Kingslayer saw it. The queen sighed and her entire face relaxed into submission of her will and she wore blankness again like a comfortable mask

"Don’t misunderstand me, Joffrey deserves to burn in the deepest pit of the seven hells and I would love to send him there myself, but no, I would never ask you to kill him. And not Joffrey's head I’m asking you for now."

The lean brow that rose in the Kingslayer’s face bore confusion but in the face of the queen's intense look, he kept his mouth wisely closed. It was Robb that spoke the words that left the hall in absolutely stunned silence.

"Bring us Petyrn Baelysh."


	7. 7

> _[this story was supposed to have four turning points. Myrcella and Robb falling in love despite themselves. In a sort of, tentative way. And then -_
> 
> A.
> 
> \- Myrcella going to Riverrun to see Tommen, a visit arranged especially because she missed her brother. (and a ‘concession’ of sorts that can come to be only because there is a solid measure of trust between Robb and Myrcella)
> 
> \- Myrcella clashing with Joffrey in Riverrun, who had decided to ‘surprise join’ the visit.
> 
> \- Myrcella and Robb reuniting, after a month or so, and realizing they are actually in love.
> 
> B.
> 
> \- Myrcella finding, among Robb’s letters, one from someone she did not know, written in Giscari and figuring out that Robb is in fact in league with the Dragon Queen.
> 
> \- Myrcella deciding to run away, to warn her family.
> 
> \- She gets caught, of course.
> 
> \- Shattered trust and love turned to hatred.
> 
> \- Tommen dies, Myrcella probably loses a child, and thinking it was her fault because in her grief she let herself go. Grief solidifying in her isolation – into hatred. Hatred for basically anyone but especially for Joffrey and whoever enables him.
> 
> C.
> 
> \- The conquering of King’s Landing.
> 
> \- Myrcella facing her family for the last time before ‘justice’ is done on them.
> 
> [ _this part here happens directly after Myrcella flees Winterfell. She arranges for her usual trip to the Gift, but deviates_ ]

* * *

 

Sansa jumped up to her feet, hands fisted at her sides and lips thinned and white. Her anger did not need to be spoken to be felt. Robb could not manage to gather the anger he knew he should feel for being lied to so coldly. He'd thought for three days that she might have been killed in and being buried by soft snow in some place. The relief that it was no so was too great. 

it could still happen, but he'd find her before then. She would survive before that. That Robb did not doubt. 

He should probably be more worried over his wive's intentions too, but he was countering that with action. Even as he sat there, his men were reading to ride out. 

“I told you, I _told_ you that she’d find out, but you wouldn’t believe me.”

Robb sighed. Yes, she had told him. Many times, but what had been the alternative. Tell Myrcella from the beginning and then have her watched all the time, make her a prisoner?

 _Is what you have now any better_ , a little voice asks him from the back of his head, but he dismisses it irritably. He has no time for that.

“And now we have a vengeful Lannister on our hands!” Sansa continued as she paced, wringing her hands.

He didn’t hear what his mother said then, it was a mutter and he didn’t quite catch it. The name of the Lannister queen in the south had to be in there, because suddenly Sansa  turned fuming eyes, cold as ice chirms under ones fingernails, on her mother.

“Oh mother! I have lived with Cersei Lannister for years, I _know_ her kind. Myrcella is not her mother.” she said so fiercely that is was almost a hiss, shocking her mother and Robb alike. “We would have been lucky if she were.” And by now her anger had molded, like hot steel dipped in water, hardened into something that she could use. “If I had to pick someone she most takes after, I would say Tyrion. And if I were a bit more unkind, and Myrcella a bit more motivated, I’d even say Tywin.”

“I think you might be overestimating the girl.” His mother said calmly.

Sansa stopped pacing and turned to look at them both.

“Oh you don’t believe me, but I was the one that watched her  slit a man’s throat in the Red Keep without battling an eyelash. And now… now you’ve betrayed her and she is in a position to destroy us.”

Lannisters… his mother hisses. Sansa resists baring her teeth in irritation and turns away to hid the look on her face. Such fierceness looks horrible and at home in her sweet face, and Robb wonders how did she learn to be a Stark so true, so far away from the north.

"Oh it’s easy to think of it that way, isn’t it. _Lannisters_.” Sansa shakes he rhead as she takes a calming breath. She fixes her eyes on Robb, because it’s to him she speaks to this time. “She's not going to hate you because she 's a Lannister, but because she was stupid enough to love you, and you betrayed her. And she's is in the perfect position to tear you down, brother, because you were foolish enough to love her back."

Robb flinched.

He'd never said those words and Myrcella had never said as much to him either, both of them guarding their own secret much more preciously than they guarded their bodies and affection with each other. Words are wind, everyone said. But the words like 'love' between a Stark and a Lannister had felt like a lie even before it left both your lips. She wouldn’t believe it, and frankly, had she spoken it, he would have doubted it as well. Perhaps they had understood each other in that, as in all else. Perhaps that was exactly why they had both kept silent about it, even when it was obvious or overwhelming, even when felt it fill his bones.

And for Sansa to say it so bluntly was... it was a bloody slap in the face, and Robb blinked as if his sister truly had hit him.

He walked away  from the room without a word. He would find her. Not only to keep her from ruining Daenerys’ attack and warning her family, but also because she had to be found. She could die in a ditch from the cold tomorrow, or be killed by a wild animal. She could be burnt by the dragon Queen later for betrayal.

So many ways Myrcella Baratheon could die. All of them, he’d tried to stop, the only way eh knew how. He’d failed.

But he wouldn’t fail in this. He would find her. She would hate him but that was no matter. She’d at least be alive to do so.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this happens after Tommen's death and Myrcella's capture and subsequent return to Winterfell, but before Jamie's visit there. At this point, Myrcella is grieving through anger and she really doesn't care that dragons are coming to burn all the Lannisters off the face of the earth. She has half a mind to step into the flames herself, actually.]

The Queen’s eyes had flared, but the rest of her face was as untouched as when she had walked in.

“My sons, if I have any, will be raised and fostered where my husband and I deem fit. That place will _never_ be King’s Landing.”

“Your Grace, I urge you to consider the benefits…”

“I will not change my mind, and I promise you, the King will not either.” The queen continued as if she’d never been interrupted in the first place. Her burning eyes and the skin stretched thin over the bones of her face were the only sign of her anger. “Tell your King an your Hand when you go back, that the next man who brings me proposals of this kind, I will kill and send back the pieces, because I _do_ believe in killing the messenger. You know why?” she leaned forward a fraction. “It sends a message.”

Lord Stafford’s eyes were wide, his jaw slack. Kevan though seemed less affronted than his cousin, leaning more on the side of caution.

“We were promised safe conduct.”

“Indeed you were. You are Winterfell’s guests and shall not be harmed. Of that I assure you.”

“Is there truly a need for threats, then?”

The queen signed. “You mistake me, that was no threat. It was a promise in the face of an offence. And I am a woman of my word.”

Kevan rose, and bowed deeply to the waist before straightening again. “My deepest apologies, if I offended your Grace. It was never my intent.”

The queen seemed to consider it. “Sit, Lord Kevan.” She finally said. It was no an acceptance of the apology but it was not hostile either. “The stupidity in making this proposal to me in the first place is what I find offensive, my lord. But that stupidity is not your own, so you are forgiven. This time.”

“Your grandfather is a wise man, your grace. And ever thinking of the good of our realm.” Lord Stefan said then, his frown hinting at his embittered mood.

The queen seemed amused, though distantly so. “Yes indeed. Proposing to exchange children as hostages may be for the good of his realm, but it certainly is not for the good of mine.”

“You would not trust your own family with the safekeeping of your blood?”

What lightness the Queen had, she lost it.

“No, I would not.”

“Your grandfather…”

“My grandfather was the man who taught me what kind of mercy to show my enemies, sir. I learned it well.” The Queen said, words so cold they hissed through the air like a blade. “Unless you have something new to say, then this matter is closed.”

Lord Stafford lost the pallor of his shock and started to grow into the redness of ill-disguised anger. His green eyes were fixed on the queen. She too had kept her unflinching gaze on him but, unlike all others on the table, she was as distant from emotion as the sky was from the earth.

Her illness made her look pale and sharp by turns, and yet her eyes were smoldering, her chin high and her back straight. She looked more the queen now than any of the men in Robb’s council had ever seen her be, and Jon could see tell that it unsettled them. Her uncles were feeling the full force of it too. Jon didn’t know what those men had been expecting, but this must not have been it.

“Your enemies? We are family! You are a Lannister.” Her uncle got out, and it was clear that it was an thoughtless remark because the other man, Lord Kevan turned a sharp and severe eye on the man.

The queen had no true reaction, but for a little mocking twist of her lips that transformed her expression.

“Careful, Lord Stafford. You and many others have fought a war that tore the realm asunder, defending the claim that I am in fact, a Baratheon. Are you claiming something different?” the queen asked, in a voice so polite it could draw blood.

Lord Stafford opened his mouth, but one single look from Lord Kevan at his side silenced the man for good.

“Of course not, your grace. Forgive my cousin’s carelessness, if you can. What he meant, I’m sure, is to appeal to the connection of family between yourself and the Iron Throne, in the hopes that you may consider our proposal under a softer light.”

There was a great many things that anyone in that room could have said to that, but it had been some time now, since anyone dared speak when it was the Queen’s turn to do so.

“Of one blood… the blood of kinslayers, kingslayers, men without honor and brotherfuckers." She recounted calmly.

The collective straightening of every spine around that table was something of a funny nature, Jon was sure. At the moment, he could only feel his skin prickling.

"Is that the blood you speak of?" But there could be no answer, not when her tone was flat enough to be razor sharp. "It makes me wonder what kind of softness you're looking for in me."

Lord Kevan opened his mouth to say something - or perhaps his jaw had slackened, Jon could not tell - but as soon as her words fell in the right places inside that head of his, her uncle thought better of it. He leaned back on the chair and sighed.

"I understand.” He said heavily. “I believe our negotiations are come to an end your grace. We would beg leave to return to King's Landing."

The queen nodded minutely. "You have leave to depart whenever you deem appropriate, as well as welcome to stay and wait for the King, should you prefer to speak to him as well."

"That will not be necessary, your grace. I believe we have our answer and I don’t think it’s likely to change."

The Queen nodded.

"Very well. You are welcome to dine with your men in the main hall and enjoy your accommodations in Winterfell as long as you need for a full rest. You will be given provisions for the road and whatever else you may need upon your departure."

Lord Kevan bowed his head. "Thank you, your grace."

"In the mean time, you are forbidden from the rookery or from sending any type of messages ahead of yourself. Mark my words, Lord Kevan, any man trying to depart on a swift horse, will meet a swift death."

That was a bit unexpected, but Jon knew enough of their new queen to know that she did nothing offhandedly and she always had her own reasons. He did not ask to understand them.

Others were less wise, though.

"May I ask why that is, your grace?" Lord Stafford asked through gritted teeth.

The queen arched one eloquent eyebrow at him, not a single other muscle of her face moving.

"You may not. But since you have the impudence to do so, here’s your answer: Because I say so, Lord Stafford." she said with a simplicity that made the power she yielded singe against those that would rather she were anyone else but herself.

"I graciously remind you that you are sojourning in the hall of the King of Winter and that I expect all your men to be on their very best behavior at all times."

Jon suppressed a smile at that. She might as well have made it plain that even the slightest toe out of line would be cut off.

"I keep full responsibility for my men, your grace."

"Good.” She stood, and all rose with her. “Good day, Lord Kevan, Lord Stafford."

Their Lannister guests took the customary bow and two steps backwards before turning to leave the room. But before he did so, Kevan Lannister turned one last time, and rested his eyes on his niece again, this time looking at her truly, without intent or calculation.

He was not looking just at the queen now.

"If I may, your grace... it has been good to see you again.”

“I am afraid my Lord, that I cannot say the same.”

Any other man might have taken it as a slight, but Lord Kevan only smiled, thought it was sad.

“The last time I saw you, you were a the sweetest girl in the Red Keep, and leaving on a boat for Dorne. You've changed much since then." There was a moment of silence and it seemed as if he wanted to say something else, but then decided against it. "I will miss that sweet girl."

"Many miss that sweet girl." the queen said as tonelessly as before, though her eyes were different now as she spoke. "She was easier to kill."

Lord Kevan gave a small smile, one that the queen did not return. He bowed again.

"Regardless, I humbly offer my congratulations, your grace." and something that was either admiration or pride, Jon could not be sure, glimmered in his dark green eyes.  "You wear your crown better than any other queen I have seen."

The ambassadors left the room and as soon as the door closed, the queen turned her eyes on Robb's council, looking at them in turn.

"Is there anything you might like to speak to me of, my Lords?" she asked as her eyes traveled up and down the table. No one spoke. "Then I shall take my leave."

She turned to the door and walked away. Only when the door snapped shut did Jon realize that her invitation to anything more to talk about had been cursory, if not out mere courtesy. she had known that nobody would speak to her of anything, and for a moment, when the lords of Robb's council started speaking among themselves, Jon despised them for it. They were so hellbent on keeping the Lannister girl, their queen, out of the game of power that they didn’t realize they had a resource on their hands.

"That was a rather generous offer, no? Stay in Wnterfell, dine in the great hall. _Too_ generous, I say."

"No, it was not." Lady Stark said immediately, before anyone else could say anything, and Jon ( _and others_ ) were surprised. lady Cately was the last person to take up defense by her good-daughter's side.

"It was expected, and nothing more. they are emissaries, come under white banner to discuss a treaty. They are to be given full guest rights and woe to anyone that breaks them." and that was very much a threat.

Jon wondered, as Lady Catelyn stared the lords down one by one, if she realized just how much in common she had with their girl-queen... and he wondered if she'd try to claw his eyes out if he ever dared mention it to her.

When her eyes settled on him, heavy and judging as always, Jon thought the answer was probably ‘yes.'


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [in an undefined moment, probably in the beginning, before the whole thing goes to shit and Myrcella loses her chill for everything and everyone]

The Queen’s glance was as quick as it was set.

“You will not.” Were the only words she spoke, but they were uttered with the simplicity of someone that utters commands and expects them to be followed.

“The god of light demands sacrifice and his way is not any less merciful than the old gods, White Queen.”

The queen’s eyes sharpened on the priestess immediately and only then did Jon realize just how final her words had truly been. Myrcella was not by nature inflexible, on the contrary. Her greatest value seemed to be in her ability to bend and never break. She could look at different sides and  find common ground for them where they could not, bowing people to her will without never giving an inch of her own dignity. That dignity seemed at times the only thing about her that never gave.

But on this, she was all steel.

“I do not require you to school me on the ways of the old gods of the north, my lady.” Myrcella said slowly.

It was surprising to see, this defense of the North’s old ways, from a southerner like her, who, rumor had it, prayed to no gods at all.

“You promised me I would be able to preach the faith of the Lord of Light within the bounds of your kingdom.”

“I do not need to be reminded of that either.” And this time, Myrcella’s irritation made it in her voice. “But perhaps I was not clear. Allow me to be so now: the weirwoods will not be touched. Not even a single branch of the northern sacred trees will fuel you holy fires.”

She straightened, her voice deepened. She was commanding now, where before she had only been speaking to a subject.

“It is of paramount pride to me that I live in a country of men and women so tolerant over matters of faith. I am determined to keep that virtue intact. You too, priestess, benefit from this virtue. It is only through because of it that you are so free to practice your own religion in the north. If you cannot find it in yourself to respect it, you will be commanded to do so."

The queen stared at the priestess for a long moment. Melisandre did not contradict her. She did not even blink.

"You may use any other wood.” The queen continued, and though her voice was softer, it was as determined as it had been when she begun. “Northeners do not mind which god you pray to as long as you do it in silence - but burning their holy trees is not something that my people will stand for and neither will I."

“As the queen commands.” Melisandre finally said, bowing her head slightly. “But the people should know the truth.”

Jon saw Myrcella’s sigh.

“Your truth, you mean?” though this time there was no heat behind the queen’s question. Jon could see the truth of what the Queen had said to him some moons before. Dealing with Melisandre tired her out.

“There is only one truth, as there is one god, White Queen, and his name is Rhlohr.”

Watching the two women measure each other was a moment that Jon found both funny, fascinating and perhaps even a little dread-inspiring. Watching the clash of Melisandre’s unshakable confidence against Myrcella’s unflinching gaze was like watching the impact between an unstoppable force and an unmovable object. For a moment the impact between them was hard enough to create sparks in the cold air of the northern wind.

“And does Rhlohr mind, my lady, that some of the people he intends to save direct their prayers to the higher powers thought different names? If he is the only god, then does it matter what humanity calls him?”

Melisandre’s smile was full of secrets. “Those who do not know better may be forgiven, your Grace, but you do. Is your pride strong enough of an excuse for you to hold on to your blindness.”

The queen sighed.

“Men will forever pray to the gods, Lady Melisandre. If your god is the only true god and means to save the living, then he will not mind what name the masses of humanity give him. And if he does, then he is not god, and we need not worry.”


End file.
